


When I was a boy

by Drago



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - High School, Bipolar Disorder, M/M, Mentions of suicide attempt, Student!Mickey, Teacher!Ian, alternative universe, older Ian, younger Mickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 09:28:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5086543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drago/pseuds/Drago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who in their right mind wants to become a teacher? Ian, apparently.<br/>For all his bad rep Mickey Milkovich is surprisingly unobtrusive, and Ian can't help but feel something for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I was a boy

**Author's Note:**

> I love older!Ian.
> 
> fyi. it's 3:21am here and dying feels like an okay option right now.
> 
> Update: I found typos, whyyyyy.

When Ian looks back he sees how silly his ‘grand’, teenage ideas were. When his meds finally kicked in and made him stable again he quickly worked on finishing high school and getting into the Uni. He was only one year late, nothing too bad. The army dream was long gone, and he mourned it for a while, but he wasn’t going to forever dwell on something that could never be. That was no longer him. Of course when Lip heard about his major he laughed until his face was red and wet from joyful tears. Because Ian decided to become an English teacher. A teacher. Not because he loved the subject so much, or because he was exceptionally good at it. No, he wanted to help children, teenagers, and it was the best he could come up with. He wanted to be one of the teachers who inspire their students, who help troubled youngsters with whatever they might be struggling. He knew from experience how blind, neglectful or abusive adults could be, he wanted to be their anchor.  
As he matured he realized that while his life wasn’t easy, it definitely wasn’t the worst. He used to pity himself because of his disorder, it’s a huge burden to carry on his shoulders, but his life could be so much worse. No one has ever really abused him, and while his parents neglected him, his older siblings, mostly Fiona, did everything they could to keep him safe. That’s more than can be said about many people in the Chicago Southside.  
He is twenty six and still a very young teacher, yet he already knows that his dreams were pointless. There are good kids, bad kids, sweet kids, clever kids and dumb kids. They don’t care about him or any other teacher. In their eyes teachers are necessary evil or… He isn’t sure, but every time he tells them that they can come to him if they have any problems all he gets are blank stares. They don’t trust him to keep them safe, why would they? Almost every day he sees bruised hands or faces, dirty, ripped clothes that he can do nothing about. He has a steady paycheck, a steady boyfriend, a steady mood and a job that is nothing like it was supposed to be. He doesn’t hate it, he just doesn’t love it either. He isn’t making any difference, just another face in a crowd. But his life is good.

He’s got a new class this year, the previous teacher got pregnant. He is equally excited and scared because Mickey Milkovich is in this class. He’s never met him before, but he heard so much about him from other teachers that it feels like he knows the whole story of this boy’s life. Also, like everyone from this neighbourhood, he’s heard about the Milkovich family. Mickey’s mother is long dead, they blame it on the overdose, or maybe it was a suicide, it was difficult to say, and no one really cared enough to examine it more closely. His father is one of the most aggressive people around, constantly in and out of jail. Drugs, sex, alcohol, guns, alibis. You name it, Terry will provide it. But the boy doesn’t live with him anymore, not since he turned eighteen few months ago. Ian has no idea where Mickey lives. He knows that Mandy, the youngest Milkovich, is living with their aunt, but for some reason said aunt didn’t take Mickey in. It could have something to do with the fact that he’s been in juvie, twice. Ian can’t even imagine how much the rejection must have hurt, even if the boy is a thug and a future drug dealer. Although there are voices that if it weren’t for missed classes, then the boy would graduate on time, supposedly he isn’t as dumb as people may think. There is also a rumor that his student was Terry’s favourite punching bag, but there is no one who can confirm that.  
Well, aside from Mickey himself, the only eighteen year old among the whole class of sixteen year olds. If Ian didn’t know the Milkovich’s age, he wouldn’t even guess that the small, pale teenager is the oldest of the bunch. The boy sits in the last row near the window, he is quiet and withdrawn, never socializing with anyone. Under expressive, stormy eyebrows sits a pair of clear, blue eyes that Ian can’t help but find attractive. Blue is the saddest colour.  
He expects trouble, but he gets none. Mickey turns in his assignments, and they aren’t half assed. It seems that he is really trying, even if his papers are sometimes crumpled and a bit smudged. He is willing to overlook it, if it means that the boy won’t be discouraged. Mickey never talks during classes, but Ian can always tell when the teenager knows the answer. He feels a connection that he cannot explain. His smiles are never reciprocated, but he doesn’t mind.  
Mickey’s been sick for over a week now, but instead of getting better he seems to be getting worse. He is attending classes like the obvious fever, coughing and stuffy nose don’t bother him, but his bloodshot eyes with dark circles under them tell a different story. Ian worries, he even tries to get his student’s address, but the only one they have is Terry’s house, and everyone knows that Mickey doesn’t live there anymore. Where does he live then? It’s an important question that no one really cares to answer. They are afraid of making the boy mad. Ian’s reasons are different, but instead of investigating he buys a whole bag of meds suggested by V, asks Mickey to stay after the lesson and gives it to him with no explanation. He only gets a grunt, but decides to think of it as a ‘thank you’. It’s so obvious that no one takes care of this (not quite, not anymore) kid that Ian’s heart breaks. It takes all of his willpower not to invite Mickey to his flat for some warm food and comfort. It’s a dangerous territory.  
The Milkovich boy regularly gets into fights. He isn’t the one who starts them, but he does finish them. It’s hard to believe how incredibly stupid the teenagers can be. Almost every week one of them tries to jump Mickey to prove that they’re not afraid of him or that he isn’t as strong as he looks. The only problem is that, even if Mickey wasn’t strong (which he is, it doesn’t matter that he is smaller than all of his assailants), he is smart and fights dirtier than anyone Ian’s ever seen. Other students stand no chance unless they jump him in a group, but this wouldn’t grant them the glory they crave. Ian must be breaking a record with the number of detentions he gives to kids who try to fuck with Mickey, but it infuriates him to no end that the boy, who suffered years of abuse from Terry, now has to deal with insecure pricks.  
Ian might be a bit crazy about Mickey. He doesn’t tell anyone because he knows they would take it the wrong way, but that’s the truth. He isn’t experienced enough as a teacher to generally feel like a failure, but every time he looks at the black haired boy he knows that the whole school system has failed him horribly. School and everything else, really.

A black eye and a split lip aren’t the worst Mickey had, but his overall appearance makes Ian’s heart clench. He looks exhausted, like he isn’t getting enough sleep. He probably isn’t, he must be working somewhere to be able to support himself without any help. The bruises he is sporting are not a result of a school fight, Ian would know. It means that whatever Mickey is doing to earn money is neither safe nor legal.  
Ian, like any other Gallagher, has his share of dumb decisions he regrets. He used to be a pretty responsible child, but his disorder took it away from him. His worst decision was probably when he started working in a gay bar as a dancer, and fucked his way through the crowd. It was a miracle that the STDs he got were easy to treat. But it wasn’t him, not really, even Lip violently disagrees when someone tries to suggest that Ian’s choices were his own back then. He has a sneaking suspicion that whatever Mickey is doing is far more illegal than underage dancing.

He’s been told on multiple occasions that it’s weird that he doesn’t mind spending time in Boystown. There are many bad memories waiting for him on every corner, but he refuses to let his past haunt him. He likes the freedom that Boystown brings. As a teacher he has to be conscious of his every move at school, law means shit-all in Southside, and he is sure that he’d have lots of problems with some of his students if they knew that he is gay.  
His boyfriend, Darren, doesn’t know about his old job. It’s their second year together, but a small part of Ian’s brain refuses to share this information. Maybe it’s because Darren is barely Southside, his life was always pretty good, his family has a nice house and his parents aren’t even divorced – they seem to still love each other. A rare, rare thing in this part of the city. Ian’s boyfriend is an upstanding citizen, Fiona couldn’t believe that he finally managed to score such a great guy.  
Ian doesn’t have a favourite club, he only avoids his old workplace, so usually they just randomly choose a place. It’s getting cold, so they’re in a hurry to get inside, and he almost misses a small figure huddled in a big jacket standing at the corner of a club, a bit in the shadow.  
“Shit, that’s my student,” he mutters nervously.  
“What?” Darren follows his gaze. “Is he a prostitute?” It’s a valid question, but Ian bristles at the assumption. There has to be a better explanation for what Mickey is doing there. They approach him carefully, like you’d approach a wild animal, trying to seem casual. Ian’s hands are shaking, so he stuffs them in his pockets.  
“Mick?” he asks when they’re close enough. “What are you doing here?”  
Mickey’s blue eyes widen marginally, he shrugs.  
“Stuff.”  
“What stuff?” Up-close Ian can tell that his student’s jacket is too thin for this weather, it’s not winter yet, but Chicago is cold and windy most of the year. The boy is shivering slightly, looking pale and hollow.  
“None of your business, fuck off.”  
He can feel Darren shift, getting into a protective mode, not that Ian needs his protection. He can do just fine on his own.  
“Are you working? It’s too cold, go home today. Get something warmer to wear before you come out again.”  
“Can’t.”  
“You can do it tomorrow, it’s supposed to be a bit warmer.”  
“No other jacket anyway,” Mickey shrugs again, refusing to look at them. He doesn’t exactly seem ashamed, but he definitely isn’t comfortable. Ian feels out of his depth, so he says the dumbest thing that pops into his mind.  
He invites Mickey to his flat, and the teenager sneers, but Darren takes out his badge and, well, threatens to arrest Mickey if he doesn’t come with them. His student is fuming all the way to Ian’s flat, and the teacher almost has a panic attack when Darren leaves. It’s a good move, there is no way that a Milkovich would ever be comfortable around a cop, but Ian isn’t ready to be alone with him.  
“Your boyfriend is a fucking cop?” the teenager sounds disgusted.  
“It’s not… he isn’t…” Ian stutters.  
Mickey smirks knowingly, so he decides to give up pretence. A quick nod is everything he manages.  
“A cop, Jesus, and here I thought you were a Southie.”  
“I am. But I’m a teacher now.”  
“Whatever man.”  
Ian was afraid that Mickey was going to flee the second Darren left the flat, but he makes himself comfortable on a couch. It occurs to him that maybe Mickey wanted to be on this corner about as much as Ian wanted to see him there. Not at all.  
“You are, are you, I mean, are you a prostitute?” he feels like he is a teenager here, not able to form a proper sentence, stumbling over words. Mickey barks out a laugh, loud and sincere.  
“Seriously? Oh man, who would want a piece of that? No, was selling something else.”  
“You’d be surprised by how many men would like that,” Ian doesn’t mean to say that, it’s too revealing, but he gets distracted for a second, and it just slips out. The most important thing should be that… “You’re selling drugs? Jesus, Mick.”  
“It’s not a big deal.”  
“Not a big deal? Really? So you want to end up in jail? You want to be someone’s bitch?” Ian wants to shake the younger man, wants to shake him until he realizes how stupid dealing drugs is, how dangerous, how bad for his future.  
But what future is there for the teenager?  
“Aye, fuck off Gallagher. Don’t preach. I need money.” Ian could say that there are many other jobs, waiting tables for one, but if Mickey wants to graduate then he can’t keep spending evenings working. No other job would give him enough money without pulling way too many hours. It doesn’t mean that Ian likes or approves of it, he is just realistic.  
“How much would you earn today if you sold everything?”  
“Dunno, 200 bucks maybe.”  
“Alright. I will buy it off you.”  
He gets coke and some ecstasy, and he flushes it down the toilet, ignoring Mickey’s grumbling about wasting money. He can’t afford doing this on a long run, but he really doesn’t want the boy to leave. He feeds him curry that Darren made the day before, and gives him some clothes to sleep in. When Mickey is showering Ian finds one of his old, thick jackets that for some reason hasn’t been passed on to one of his younger brothers. It’s too small for him now, so it should fit the teenager perfectly. It turns out that his couch is also Mickey-sized. Ian tosses and turns for an hour before quietly going to the living room to watch his student sleep. It makes him feel like a pervert.  
There are two sets of scars on Mickey’s wrists, and Ian knows what they mean all too well. His BPD never pushed him this far, but his mother tried and tried until she succeeded. Horizontal lines on teenager’s skin are pale like the rest of him, but the vertical ones are fresh and pink. Yet Mickey manages to look peaceful in his slumber, face relaxed. Ian wants to know what made him try not one time, but twice. He wants to keep Mickey safe.  
The next morning he finds an empty couch, empty box of pop tarts and a $100 bill on the kitchen table.  
It becomes a thing. Mickey doesn’t come to him even though he knows the address, but every time the night is too cold Ian waits until he is sure that Mickey sold at least half of his stuff and then goes to pick him up from Boystown (both of them pretend not to know why Mick gets paid more when he sells there). It’s always Boystown, that’s how he knows that the boy doesn’t mind it as much as he pretends to. It happens five, six times a month. Darren isn’t too happy about it, he tells Ian to draw the line somewhere, but Mickey isn’t even doing or expecting anything, so Ian doesn’t see a problem. Is giving someone warm food and a couch to sleep really this much? It feels like not enough. Like nothing.  
They still don’t talk at school, but Mickey is a little bit more open when they sit in Ian’s kitchen sharing food, a little more trusting. Darren calls him a puppy, Ian’s pet project, and frankly speaking Ian is glad that his boyfriend can’t see the truth.  
It’s not even winter yet, but nights are already so cold that Ian refuses to leave the flat after 10pm. Darren calls him an old guy, but he pulled enough open air all-nighters when he was younger to enjoy being inside rather then outside in cold weather.  
Mickey is sick again, his pale skin looks paper thin, blue veins obvious under his eyes, red lips chapped, hands dry. The teenager is malnourished, six decent meals a month can’t do much for his health. So Ian starts making sandwiches and gives them to Mickey when no one else can see. The teenager seems to be torn between feeling offended and grateful, but Ian doesn’t care as long as the sandwiches end up eaten. He isn’t doing this because he expects gratitude. 

The last thing Ian wants after a whole week of work is to have dinner with Darren’s family, but he already promised, and well, they are boyfriends. Small sacrifices are an inextricable part of every relationship.  
He wants to sleep for twenty hours, but instead he puts a nice shirt on and picks up a bottle of red wine he can’t drink. He is supposed to meet Darren at his parents’ place, the shortest way there leads through Boystown, and his thoughts instantly wander to Mickey. He slows down when he is driving next to his student’s usual spot, and he almost loses control over the car when he sees who is talking to Mickey. The guy was already old Ian was seventeen, he’s a real grandpa now. There is only one thing he can want from Mickey, and Ian will sooner go to prison for homicide than let him have it. He stops right next to them, and the teenager looks up, almost smiling when he notices Ian. Mickey says something to the old pervert and gets into the car.  
“What did he want?” he feigns ignorance, not wanting to spook the younger man.  
“Wanted to watch me get fucked by one of these machines, you know, fucking machines? I thought they only had them in porn,” the boy says unashamedly, looking intrigued.  
That’s not quite what Ian expected, but now that he thinks about it, it seems obvious. The guy is probably too old to get a stiffy, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy pretty young things anymore. Pretty young things like Mickey, Jesus, Ian’s imagination is too good, and he isn’t made of stone.  
“I have a thing today, so I will just drop you off at your place.”  
“Whatever.” He is insanely curious about Mickey’s flat, the address is in a decent enough neighbourhood, and the boy says it’s a basement of some house transformed into a tiny flat. It sounds okay.  
He is wrong. Awfully, terribly wrong. Because the house looks alright, so Ian invites himself to the actual flat. The first thing that hits him is how cold it is inside, seems to be colder than the outside. Mickey explains that there is no central heating down there.  
“What the fuck do you mean no heating?”  
“It’s cheaper for them. And me, the rent is low. I sleep in my clothes most of the time.”  
The flat, if it can be called one, is not only cold, but also dirty. Not because of the mess Mickey made, because the boy doesn’t have enough things to make a mess, but because the owners didn’t even bother with painting the walls, few pieces of furniture that are there are falling apart, and the bed has to be too small even for Mickey. And there are no windows. It’s depressing as fuck. Ian feels hot tears of anger springing into his eyes. He breathes loudly, in and out, in and out, before speaking again.  
“I will pick you up around two or three.”  
“What?”  
“I have to go, but be ready.”  
“No, Gallagher, wait…”  
Ian doesn’t wait. He drives to Darren’s parents’ house and spends ten minutes sitting in a car trying to calm down before entering. He wants to dig fingers into the soft flesh of Mickey’s landlord’s stomach and make him scream in pain. What kind of person does that to a kid that has nowhere else to go?  
The dinner drags on forever, it’s the same boring shit with the same boring people. Ian smiles, jokes, talks about work and prays for it to be over. Then he drives Darren to his flat and fucks him twice before he can go. He could stay, there is nothing stopping him. He should stay. But he leaves the second he is sure that Darren is asleep and won’t wake up, and drives all the way to Mickey’s ‘flat’. The teenager must’ve been sleeping, his hair is mussed and eyes slightly puffy when he opens the door. It’s adorable.  
“Come on before I freeze my ass off. Pack some clothes and come to the car.”  
“Fuck off.”  
“No, I won’t fuck off. You’re coming with me.”  
“Or what? You will make me?” Mickey challenges, still half asleep.  
“Oh I will make you.” Ian is quite sure he would win. He just doesn’t really want to test it, he’s never dealt well with humiliation. But Mickey doesn’t put up much of a fight. He grabs some clothes and then promptly falls asleep in a car. Ian mulls over carrying the teenager up to his flat, but decides it would be too much. He wakes Mickey up, and pretends not to notice the way the younger man curls up, fists slightly raised.  
Mickey stays the whole weekend, then Monday, Tuesday, on Wednesday Ian gives him a set of keys. Verbal communication between them is somewhat lacking, they never talk about anything substantial, but the keys are telling enough. Mickey disappears for five days (he still goes to school, he just avoids Ian), but then he comes with a duffel bag full of his belongings. And just like that he is moved in.  
The fight with Darren is bad, their worst fight so far. There are lots of accusations and hurtful words thrown in, but Ian is mostly surprised by how little he cares about his boyfriend’s objections. He doesn’t remember being this heartless. But later he looks at Mickey curled on his couch, and he can feel that his heart is in the right place.  
Ian is great at sharing things with other people, growing up with five siblings taught him that. He doesn’t really mind finding socks in random places or crumbs on the kitchen table, or having to wait to use the bathroom. It’s a bit tough on his intimate life, but Darren has his own place, so it’s manageable. Sometimes he can hear Mickey masturbate, and if it stirs anything in him then no one has to know.  
Of course Mickey finds his meds, not that they’ve really been hidden. Ian just thought that hiding them in plain sight will make them less interesting for the teenager. He was wrong, and it led to a rather difficult, for him, conversation about bipolar disorder. But he was pleasantly surprised when Mickey just grunted and said ‘so that’s why you don’t drink.’ He didn’t think that the boy cared enough to notice.

“How long do you want me to pretend that I don’t know about the drugs he keeps in your flat?” Darren asks conversationally over the dinner they’re having in a restaurant.  
“What drugs?”  
“The ones he is selling, don’t play dumb. I’m a cop, Ian. I can’t just…” He can, he just shouldn’t. And Ian always admired his dedication, really he did, but it’s quite inconvenient at the moment. Ian is aware of the drugs, not that he sees them, but Mickey has to keep them somewhere, and it’s the safest place. The teacher in him is less than happy about it, but the Southside mentality stops him from taking any action.  
“Don’t worry about it. He doesn’t sell a lot, just enough to get by.”  
“Seriously? Jesus, Ian, he is selling to kids. You can’t ignore that just because you want to fuck him,” Darren spits out, clearly disgusted.  
It makes Ian freeze. He scrapes his brain looking for some kind of explanation or excuse, but comes up with nothing. So they fight a bit more, he breaks up with Darren, and he feels relief instead of sadness. He does cry when he gets home, but it has little to do with his ex-boyfriend.  
For the first time since he is stable he feels like a waste of space. The worst thing is that he can tell that it isn’t his disorder talking. He can tell the difference by now. Sometimes he is sad because his disorder is fighting the meds, and sometimes it’s the realization that everything he does is pointless. He isn’t going anywhere with his life, and it would be fine if he at least could have a real relationship. He fucked up with Darren just like he fucked up with every other decent guy. Decent guys like that aren’t the most interesting, but they are good for him, it’s easy to keep a routine around them. He fucks it up because he starts craving something more, he wants adventure and thrill, he likes gentle sex, but he wants wild fucking to be a part of his relationship as well. His family tells him that there is nothing wrong with wanting some excitement, but what do they know? None of them can keep a steady partner for more than a year or two unless there is money involved (they all know that Fiona’s second marriage only works because her husband is stupid and rich).  
Ian doesn’t deal well with being alone. It may stem from the fact that he’s never really been alone as a child or as a teenager, always surrounded by his siblings, but reasons don’t matter. He hates that his happiness depends on the presence of other people, and he’s tried hard to change it, but he is twenty six and still as reliant on others as ever.  
It takes meager two drinks to get him drunk. How pathetic is that? Not that he cares, too busy climbing up the stairs. He is laughing to himself, so why are his eyes wet? He drops his keys twice when he tries to open the door, then it opens on its own. He blinks at Mickey who apparently must have heard him struggle and decided to ease his suffering. And he does, he does ease Ian’s suffering because every time he looks at the boy, at the young man, his heart starts beating faster, he wants to hold him, never let go.  
Mickey holds him, mutters ‘Jesus, Ian’ and helps him into the flat. Ian is asleep seconds after his body hits the bed, but he has just enough time to look at Mickey’s beautiful, worried face.  
When he wakes up in the morning he hopes there will be no questions asked, but for the first time since Mickey moved in the teenager is curious and deflects every attempt at distraction. Finally, Ian gives in, telling him about the break up.  
“Good. He was boring as fuck,” is what Mickey says, and Ian can’t help but laugh. Yeah, yeah he was. 

It’s getting really cold, Ian’s car is playing up more often than not, refusing to start in the morning even though it isn’t even snowing yet. He buys Mickey a thick winter coat, and gets him a job at a library, shelving books. After lots of grumbling and bitching Mickey sells the last of his drugs and accepts both gifts. The job won’t earn him much, but it’s legal, and he won’t freeze his balls off in dirty alleyways. Ian likes to think that he might have domesticated the teenager a bit with his soups and incessant nagging. Maybe Mickey wants to thank him for everything by becoming a proper citizen. The thought amuses Ian, especially when his flatmate comes home with bruised knuckles and bloodied nose.  
During the winter Ian usually turns on the heating in his room and bathroom only since this is where he wants to be most comfortable without wearing too many clothes. He saves money this way, but it isn’t exactly fair to Mickey. It’s almost 3 am, and he can’t sleep because he is too busy thinking about getting up and putting on the heating for the boy, when his door opens and Mickey enters, carrying a pillow with him.  
“Like fuck I’m sleeping there. It’s enough that your couch is uncomfortable as fuck, I’m not going to freeze in my sleep.”  
“So dramatic,” Ian jokes. The bed dips under the added weight. There is enough space that they don’t have to touch, but Mickey’s mere presence makes Ian giddy. It’s yet another thing they don’t talk about, it just happens. The teenager probably thinks that the heating is broken in the living room, and Ian is no rush to correct him. 

“Why is Mickey Milkovich living with you?” Carl’s question throws him off as much, if not more, as the unexpected visit from his (almost) whole family. He didn’t plan spending the Saturday evening with his family, but he didn’t have any other plans either, so he went along with it, especially since they brought food. The only downside is that Mickey, who answered the door, promptly disappeared right after, probably freaked out by the sheer number of Gallaghers in one place. That, and the fact that Carl’s met Mickey in juvie when both of them were younger. It’s a really unfortunate coincidence, he’s hoped that he wouldn’t have to explain why there is a student living with him for at least few more months, he would come up with a believable story when the right time came. There is no time though, and he panics which results in him telling the truth, at least most of it. Debbie, Carl and Liam couldn’t care less, but Fiona’s gaze is disapproving, and Lip knows or suspects. He’s never hated his brother’s intelligence more, especially when he calmly asks, “Are you fucking him already, or are you still trying to get into his pants?”  
Fiona’s scandalized gasp makes him laugh, it’s pretty rich coming from her seeing as she’s done time. And Lip used to fuck his professor at Uni. So really, what right do they have to judge him on a crime he hasn’t committed yet?  
“I’m not doing anything with him.”  
“But he sleeps in your room, I checked the living room.”  
“It’s none of your business. You approve or disapprove, I don’t fucking care. I’m trying to help him, and what I feel has nothing to do with it,” he changes the topic then, no longer willing to discuss his private life. His relationship with them is complicated, they used to be very close, but they grew apart as they got older and more comfortable in life. You don’t wake up one day and think ‘oh, I don’t love my family anymore’, but living without them made one thing very obvious: they were as close as the circumstances forced them to be. Remove the toxic parents, really bad neighbourhood, add other people to the mix, and that’s it, your once tight-knit family is no more. Fiona still tries to cling to the past, mostly by trying to give them unwanted advice and criticizing their life choices, but even Liam knows that they’re more of a ‘let’s-have-dinner-once-a-month’ family rather than ‘let’s-talk-to-each-other-every-day’ one. It’s funny that Frank’s death led them to it, but Ian doesn’t like to think about that.  
He is exhausted when they finally leave, too tired to clean up after them. At least Lip managed to put a smile on his face by showing his support when they hugged goodbye. Well, he only said to be careful with the ‘Milkovich kid’, but it wasn’t meant to put him off. It also served as a reminder of why Lip is his favourite, even if he can be a pretentious asshole.  
Despite being tired he almost resorts to counting sheep, unable to fall asleep, and he doesn’t even try to pretend that it’s not because Mickey isn’t in bed with him. He gives up and sends a short message, not telling the younger man to come home, just asking about his whereabouts. Half an hour later Mickey joins him smelling like alcohol, weed and sex, and Ian wants to put his face in dark hair to inhale his scent, even though the jealousy is burning in his blood. 

His hands are shaking. His whole body is trembling, but he can clearly see his shaking hands in the early morning light seeping through the curtains. He never manages to close them the right way. He is used to his body’s reactions to meds by now, it’s just a small inconvenience in comparison with everything he went through because of his illness.  
His ceiling is white and smooth, no cracks like in his old house. As a kid he used to stare at them before he fell asleep, coming up with stories about how they got there, refusing to accept the obvious explanation that their house was old and no one ever had enough spare money to paint it again. It always put his mind at ease, and at first it was difficult to adjust to this uncracked ceiling, but he is good now, finding new calm in its almost perfect smoothness. Maybe there is a metaphor hidden somewhere, but he can’t see it. He’s a bad English teacher.  
Mickey is sound asleep, lying on his stomach, dressed in an old t-shirt and a pair of black, skin-tight boxer shorts. Ian turns to watch him, greedily taking in the young man’s strong shoulders, tracing the gentle slope of Mickey’s back with his eyes, wishing he could touch. He admires the swell of Mick’s ass, his thick thighs and flawless white skin covered in pale freckles. The boy is a thing of beauty whether he wants to acknowledge it or not. And Ian wants to worship him.  
He is scared. He’s never been attracted to anyone younger than him, he always felt drawn to older, more experienced men. His youngest boyfriend’s been three years older than him, and now this. Eighteen year old boy, his charge. He is partially responsible for the boy’s intellectual and social growth, but all he can think about is fucking him raw. What started as a small attraction turned into a full blown, unstoppable desire which will probably blow up in his face. At least he is good at hiding it most of the time, or maybe it’s just that Mickey would never suspect that anyone could feel anything for him.  
There is no scenario in which a guy like Mickey could be good for Ian, but he has to admit that he can probably cause even bigger damage to the younger man. Is that what he came to be? This person that preys on lost teenagers? Mickey isn’t innocent, but he is a product of his rotten environment, of a broken home with an abusive father, Ian doesn’t want to hurt him further, but he knows that his resolution will sooner or later crumble.  
Ian Gallagher is not a good man. 

At the beginning of the year Mickey would come to class with smudges of dirt on his pale arms or forehead, he didn’t exactly stink, but he could do with showering more. Ian didn’t mind, he grew up in a place that was too old to be really clean. It’s one of the reasons why it took him a while to notice that Mickey’s actually clean. The other reason is that since they constantly are around each other any changes are hard to notice.  
But he can see it now, so close to the boy that he can inhale his scent. The white skin is spotless, almost glowing in the moonlight. Ian’s fingers twitch, the need to touch is too much to resist, so he presses his fingertips to the smooth skin on Mickey’s shoulder blade, and jerks away when he hears a quiet ‘yeah?’ It’s the lightest of touches, it’d be impossible to wake up anyone with it if they were asleep, so the teenager must’ve been awake the whole time Ian’s been looking at him. He can’t know, of course, since he is lying with his back to the older man, but Ian feels ashamed anyway. Of his staring, and of the erection which is tenting his boxers, and which comes into contact with Mickey’s ass when the boy shuffles back a bit. They both freeze, and Ian considers running to the bathroom to hide, forgetting for a second that he is supposed to be the responsible adult here.  
“You can, if you want,” Mickey’s voice is lower than usually, gravelly.  
“What?” he really doesn’t understand, but Mickey makes it obvious by moving again, pressing his ass fully against Ian’s cock.  
“You can,” he repeats. There are only two reactions to the invitation, but only one of them is appropriate. He can refuse, try to convince the teenager that his arousal is not a result of a very close proximity between them. Or he can accept, he can fuck the boy to get him out of his system. He makes a mistake of hesitating, Mickey reaches for his hand and places it on his thin hip, and just like that Ian is gone, the decision made for him.  
The material of Mickey’s wife beater feels slightly rough against his nipples, but the perky ass feels so right when Ian grinds into it. He grips the boy’s hips, forcing them slightly up, so he can sneak the other hand under the small body and touch the soft part of Mickey’s stomach.  
The ass is even better than Ian imagined, firm and round, and oh-so-perfect where it’s rubbing against his hard dick. Mickey is moving, barely noticeably circling his hips to create friction between them. Ian presses into him hard, two thin layers of fabric which are separating them do nothing to quell his arousal when his cock slots itself between the cheeks. He clings to the teenagers’ hips not wanting to touch Mickey’s cock, fearing that the boy might be soft.  
He thrusts hard, just once, just to test the boundaries, maybe scare the younger man into running away. But the pleasure sends the electric shock through his body, and one thrust turns into him unabashedly humping the pliant body so rough, that the whole bed shakes, and he has to hold tightly onto Mickey to keep him from moving away. Nonsensical words are escaping his lips alongside the heavy grunts and moans, and his boxers are already wet from sweat mixed with pre-come.  
He speeds up, earning a surprised ‘Jesus’ from Mickey, but he is too far gone to care. The boy’s skin is hot, clammy under his palms, and his teeth sink into the pale neck when the pleasure blinds him. He comes so hard that breathing becomes difficult, his whole body shaking and spasming, hot spurts of come coating the inside of his underwear. He wants to rub his cum all over Mickey’s thighs and ass, make him eat it off his fingers. His mind goes blank for a second, and he lies there, with his thighs still against Mickey’s, and his cock nestled against his student’s ass.  
And then he can think again, so he turns on his back, closes his eyes and hopes that everything will be alright when the morning comes.

He feels guilty for falling asleep as quickly as he did, but even if they didn’t have penetrative sex it was one of the most draining orgasms he’s ever had. But in the morning light, with Mickey still asleep next to him, he feels the dread creeping on him. There are hand shaped bruises on Mickey’s hips from where Ian gripped too tight, and the wave of shame leaves him breathless. He wouldn’t feel so guilty if the intercourse, that is if humping someone’s ass can be called an intercourse, fulfilled his fantasy and made him free of the inappropriate lust. But all it did is made him want Mickey even more. He wants skin on skin, cocks touching, sliding into warm mouths. He wants a proper fuck, a proper kiss. He wants to fill every orifice of the teenager’s body, claim the boy as his.  
He doesn’t even know if Mickey is gay. What they did the night before, _what Ian did_ , had nothing to do with young man’s sexuality. Ian is more than aware that in Mickey’s world there is no such thing as free help. It’s always this for that, and he is surprised it took this long. Maybe that’s all the proof he needs. Ian isn’t one for fake modesty, he knows he is attractive and that fucking him isn’t a chore (being with him, well, that’s a different thing entirely).  
If Mickey isn’t gay then he is going to drive himself crazy with want. He refuses to fuck the boy if he is straight, that’s one line he can’t cross, but he won’t kick Mickey out, he isn’t one of those perverts who pretend to care about boys just to fuck them and then throw away like used goods. Lip is going to laugh. Ian always had a tendency to put himself in the shittiest situations, and the worst part is that it’s always his own damn fault. Boring life is better than whatever internal turmoil he has to go through because suddenly he can’t keep it in his pants when it comes to teenage boys. No, when it comes to Mickey fucking Milkovich. 

School is giving him a headache. The kids are too loud, too obnoxious, and one girl tried to blow him out of nowhere. She stayed behind to talk about some issue she had with the lesson, then suddenly dropped to her knees and tried to open his trousers. He almost punched her, but in the end settled for pushing her away harshly, shocked and disgusted. Of course it resulted in the headmaster wanting to talk to him, even though both of them knew it was bullshit. The headmaster thinks he’d never fuck a student, Ian knows he’d never fuck a girl, but no one needs to know that as long as both of them agree to simply forget about the whole thing.  
The worst thing is that the school feels mind-numbingly boring, and yet manages to make him restless. Mickey is the most entertaining person in the whole building, but Ian can’t be entertained by him. He can’t think about the boy’s cold blue eyes or plush, pink lips, so he looks at everything but Mickey.  
He takes a day off and visits his doctor, not running away from the unavoidable, at least not anymore. He used to be so dumb, not taking his meds long enough for them to start working properly, fighting his family, running away with Monica. What was he trying to achieve by this? How taking off with her was going to convince his family that he wasn’t like her? He knows better now. He is better now. It’s the fight of his life that he intends to win, and so far he is succeeding.  
He even likes his doctor. The woman is competent, professional and kind. She doesn’t pity him, and Ian actually believes when she says that she trusts him. It’s the main reason why he makes an appointment the second something feels wrong, no longer waiting for the depression, or mania, to hit full force. They chat for a while, slightly adjust his routine, and he already feels better when he leaves the office. He buys spicy fried chicken for dinner, it might not be good for the body, but it’s definitely good for the soul. And Ian likes to watch Mickey’s lips turn a brighter shade of red than usually from the spices when he bites into the juicy meat, white teeth separating meat from bones.  
It shouldn’t make Ian hard, but it does. So, so hard. 

The lines on Mickey’s wrists seem somehow redder, as if the teenager’s been rubbing them. It might be accidental because Mickey’s hands are always moving, almost like he has a nervous tick, but Ian has a feeling that this time it was on purpose. There are no scratches on other parts of his wrists, just on the long, vertical lines. Ian reaches for them, and Mickey doesn’t react, so he presses his fingers into one of the slightly bulging scars. It’s warmer than it should be.  
“Why did you do that?”  
Mickey snorts as if the answer is so obvious that it isn’t even worth saying. Maybe it is, but Ian wants to hear it anyway.  
“First time I just wanted a break,” Mickey eventually says. “Things were pretty bad at home, so it was convenient. I didn’t want to die then.”  
Ian waits for a few, long minutes before he curls his fingers around the teenager’s wrist, squeezing it lightly.  
“And the second time?”  
“My dad found me with a boy,” Mickey’s voice hitches. “F… fucking. And no son of his will be an AIDS ridden monkey taking it up the ass from some whiny faggot. He beat me up pretty bad, then brought some Russian whore to fuck me, but I couldn’t keep it up, so he pistol-whipped me some more. Said I have to be able to fuck my future wife. Wife. He wanted me to marry her, make me straight. I couldn’t. I just… enough is enough.”  
“So you slit your wrists for real,” Ian feels his eyes burn, even though it’s not his story to cry over. He wonders if Mickey cried, if that was even allowed in Terry Milkovich’s household.  
“Didn’t die ‘cause Iggy found me, it was touch and go for a while, but yeah. Later I moved out and whatever.”  
Ian can tell that the teenager doesn’t want to talk about it, he is getting visibly restless, but he still doesn’t pull away from Ian. Maybe the physical contact is helping, grounding him.  
“I’m glad he did,” and Mickey’s blue, blue eyes open so wide that Ian knows that no one has ever said anything like that to him before. For a moment, he sees a vulnerable teenager, who’s never experienced anything but hatred and disdain from those who were supposed to protect him. There is a bit of resistance when Ian tugs Mickey’s wrist towards himself, and then a stifled curse when he kisses the bony wrist.  
“You really are gay, huh?” he asks quietly, needing the final confirmation.  
“’Course I am, why would I offer you my ass otherwise?” Mickey’s eyebrows are trying to crawl into his hair, signalizing the stupidity of the question.  
“I thought that maybe, you… uh, you wanted to return a favour?”  
“Do I look like someone who would do that if I wasn’t gay?”  
No, Mickey looks like a Southside thug and a gay basher. Like a teenager who wasn’t allowed to be a child. Like a young man who was never loved. Ian is going to love him, whatever the consequences there might be, he is going to love this boy. He leans for a kiss, but Mickey tries to turn away from it.  
“I don’t kiss.”  
“Bullshit you don’t,” he tightly holds Mick’s wrists with one hand, grabbing his chin with another and forcing a strong, painful kiss. The metallic taste of blood floods his mouth, Mickey’s lips open to let out a gasp, and he presses until his tongue slides against the boy’s. It’s sloppy, Mickey is clearly inexperienced with kissing, and so good Ian wants to never let go. He sucks on the teenager’s bottom lip, gently grazing it with his teeth as he pulls away to repeat, “complete bullshit, I will kiss the hell out of you”. When he goes back to kissing he thinks he can feel the corners of Mickey’s lips lifting in a small smile.  
From then on Ian insists on kissing Mickey hello and goodbye, kissing him when they wake up and go to sleep, kissing him to shut him up, to convey happiness, gratitude and simply because he wants it.  
That’s all they do during the following weeks. 

Not having sex with the sexiest person he’s ever met isn’t as difficult as it should be, probably because he isn’t a hormonal teenager anymore and has some self-control. But he spends a lot of time thinking about what Mickey is doing when he is out and not working. They are flatmates who kiss, nothing more, no promises between them, and Ian wonders whether the younger man is fucking other people. He learned the hard way that pushing someone may have highly unpleasant consequences. He used to have a boyfriend who was still in the closet, and he pushed the guy beyond the breaking point. The outcome was messy, involved drugs and a minor mental breakdown on Ian’s side, even if it was his boyfriend who was a real victim. Sometimes it’s hard to understand that people’s personalities can differ so vastly. He promised to himself, and every other future guy that would appear in his life, that he will never do that again. That he will be careful even if it’s going to hurt him. He’s done so much damage during twenty six years of his life that just thinking about it makes him sick. But what is done is done, and he can only try to be better. He isn’t sure how fucking, or at the moment only thinking about fucking, his student fits into that, but it could be much worse.  
Ian still doesn’t know whether Mickey is fucking someone, but he meets the sister he’s read about. Mandy. Mandy almost looks like Mickey’s twin, only her lips aren’t as plump or eyes as big. But she has the same mean glare, and she literally threatens him with a shiv when her brother goes to the bathroom.  
“You like fucking kids?”  
“He is eighteen,” which still, in most people’s books, makes Mickey a kid, but at least it’s legal.  
“And you’re what, thirty?”  
“Twenty six!” Ian sputters, offended.  
“Pedo,” but her smile is teasing this time, and the shiv disappears in her pocket.  
“Besides, we’re not, we just… kiss,” it sounds lame said out loud, and he doesn’t know why he is explaining himself to Mandy. He doesn’t need her approval, she is even younger than Mickey.  
“What are you waiting for then? Invitation?” Ian feels the blush spreading all over his face and neck, he knows it’s not a good look on him. “Oh my God, this is gold. Gold! What do you expect him to do, send you a letter stating that his ass is open and ready for your dick? You do realize it’s Mick we’re talking about, right?” Mandy’s laugh is loud and unattractive, mostly because it’s aimed at him. But of course she is right, her brother isn’t the most open person when it comes to feelings, and also he isn’t one to throw himself at guys. It’s Ian’s forte. Hell, Mickey probably thinks that the fact that he lets Ian kiss him all the time says everything. Maybe it does, maybe Ian was too dumb to notice. 

There is no written, or any other, invitation, but one day he comes home and finds Mickey on the bed, reading a magazine, dressed in a pair of loose boxers and nothing more. It’s not supposed to be sexy, just a teenager being lazy, doing nothing, but Ian takes one look at the boy’s thick, pale thighs and slim hips, and his blood boils. His shirt rips when he hastily pulls it off, but the teenager doesn’t even look up from what he’s reading, like it doesn’t affect him in any way. Maybe it doesn’t, but Ian feels more than affected. He finds himself fully naked, exposed, and Mickey is still not looking.  
He feels like a man possessed when he crawls on his hands and knees towards the smaller man, settling between the bent legs. He licks a long stripe from the delicate ankle up to a knee, the boy’s skin soft and almost hairless under his tongue. A shiver is the only reaction he gets, but it’s encouraging enough. He kisses and sucks on Mickey’s thighs, leaving a trail of red spots in his wake, the white, soft skin will be later littered with bruises. It makes Ian a little bit harder, just thinking about the dark marks that will remind the teenager of what happened.  
He moves closer to the boy’s covered groin, presses his nose to the thin material hiding Mickey’s half hard cock. He inhales, already high on the musky scent of arousal. His tongue sneaks out without his permission, licking and wetting the underwear, trying to taste Mick’s pretty dick through the fabric, wrapping his lips around the mushroom shaped head the best he can and sucking. There are small pieces of cotton on his tongue, but all he can concentrate on is the teenager’s slightly trembling body. Mickey’s legs spread wantonly, Ian knew the boy would be endearingly shameless, or at least he _hoped_.  
He slowly removes the last garment preventing him from touching the younger man’s most private parts, and finally there are fingers touching his temple and hair, Mickey’s given up pretence of reading. The fingers aren’t trying to rush him, they’re just resting there, and he appreciates the gesture. He shows this appreciation by nuzzling Mickey’s dick, giving it small kitten licks, bringing the teenager to a full mast before properly taking him into mouth and sucking. He isn’t playing around, years of experience make deepthroating easy, and quiet groans are his reward.  
He presses fingers against Mickey’s puckered hole, testing the boundaries, and pushes one, dry finger inside. Mick’s hips jerk, and Ian smiles around the cock in his mouth. So his boy likes a bit of pain with his pleasure, Ian can work with that. He swallows, making his throat clench while another finger joins the first one, looking for Mickey’s prostate. His twists his fingers, reveling in the tightness surrounding his fingers, his dick already wet from precome at a mere thought of fucking the teenager.  
Suddenly Mickey gasps loudly. Ian doesn’t bother with gentle, he rubs and presses against the gland, wanting the younger man to come before they properly fuck. Mickey is squirming, his whole body vibrating with the approaching orgasm. Ian pulls away slightly to tease the slit with his tongue before wrapping his lips around the cockhead and sucking strong enough to make Mickey cry out. With the hand that is not busy milking the teenager’s prostate Ian presses against his stomach aiming for the external stimulation, and he succeeds at the second try. Mickey tenses, squeezing Ian’s fingers, and then comes with a shout. The older man continues to rub against the prostate until a tired ‘stop’ reaches his ears.  
He begins a slow journey, kissing and licking Mickey’s soft stomach up to a firm chest. He bites small nipples a bit too hard and Mick’s spent cock twitches, interested. It’s a valiant effort, it’s too soon even for someone this young. When their lips finally meet Ian lets their kiss start deceptively gently, he sucks on a plump lower lip before biting it, drawing blood and making the teenager whimper.  
“I don’t want to use a condom, I want to pump you full of come,” Ian breathes into Mickey’s mouth. He isn’t usually this crude or vulgar, or irresponsible, but Mick is driving him mad. _Madder._  
“No, I…Not sure if I’m clean,” the teenager admits, looking everywhere but at the older man. “I fucked random dudes with no rubber, better not try that now.”  
It’s surprisingly thoughtful, and Ian can feel a soppy smile slowly taking over his face. He pushes his tongue against Mickey’s puffy lips until the boy gasps and lets him fuck his mouth. Ian isn’t sure he will last much longer, so he blindly searches for a condom and quickly puts it on, but when he reaches for lube Mick stops his hand with a sly smile. He can play this game as well. He aligns their dicks and grinds against the boy, the tight grip he has on the teenager’s slim hips making it impossible for him to escape.  
“Fuck,” Mickey grunts, spreading his legs wide, trying to ease the pressure. Ian laughs at the attempt, uses his strength to raise the teenager’s hips and slides into him in one, strong thrust.  
“Fuck!” this time it’s a shout, and Ian giggles against the soft skin on his boy’s cheek. He doesn’t think he can go slow, they will have time for slow. Right now he wants fast and hard, and verging on painful. Mickey might not be a virgin, but his hole rebels against the thickness forced inside of it, squeezing around him. Ian keeps on pushing, twisting his hips, looking for Mick’s prostate again. When he finds it the teenager almost dislodges him when his whole body jerks, but Ian holds him down and continues the assault.  
“I’ve never had…” it’s left unfinished, but somehow Ian knows. Mickey’s short nails leave red scratches on his back and arms, but the boy isn’t pushing him away.  
Ian gets lost in the feeling, surrounded by Mickey’s body and scent. His thrusting is fast and uneven, but the younger man’s cock is full again anyway, already dark red and weeping. Ian fucks like it’s the last thing he will ever do, chasing his orgasm. The brutal pace makes Mickey babble incoherently and whine. Ian watches him, watches the way he arches before coming untouched between their bodies, crying out. There are real tears shining in his boy’s eyes. It spurs him on, Mick’s body is even tighter now, Ian slams in few more times and he is coming as well, letting out one, short shout before his lips find Mickey’s.  
The younger man is clearly exhausted, already falling asleep, but Ian licks him clean and then moves down to take care of his abused hole. 

If Ian wasn’t sure whether Mickey’s been sleeping around before they had sex, then now he knows for sure that it’s happening. The boy isn’t hiding it, not like he even could hide his stretched, used hole when they are fucking at least once a day. Ian doesn’t remember having this much sex as a teenager, probably because he never lived with his partners back then. So at first he really doesn’t understand why Mickey needs to sleep with other guys. Ian isn’t fond of bottoming, but he knows a thing or two about biology, and getting pounded so much can’t be pleasurable, or at least the aftermath of it has to be slightly painful. It takes him a while to realize that Mickey is testing him. No, it’s more than that. Mickey is afraid of commitment. They already live together, Ian is basically supporting him, and now that.  
“Look, you’re the one with all the power here. It’s probably difficult for him,” is what Lip says when Ian confides in him. “You can be kind of intense, and he is just a kid. I know you want to be exclusive, but go easy on him.”  
Ian wants to laugh, Mickey has so much power over him that it makes him feel pathetic, but of course the younger man doesn’t know about it. Maybe he even thinks that Ian has a tendency to fuck his students, and he is just another name on a long list.  
Ian, because he rarely ever listens to his brother, doesn’t take it easy. He finds a guy old enough to be his type, or what used to be his type. And he invites him to his house, to their bed. Quid pro quo, right? Mickey comes home at some point, but Ian learns about it in the morning when he finds a slightly wet towel and some bundled up blankets on the couch. The teenager misses school, but comes home in the evening, yet again looking tired and withdrawn. He doesn’t even try to enter the bedroom, just plops down on a couch, and Ian understands his mistake. He is an idiot, plain and simple. Mickey is eighteen. Eighteen. Ian remembers being a dumb child when he was eighteen, and yet he expects fully developed emotional maturity from someone who only recently escaped abuse. A stupid mistake that could cost him someone he cares about. Someone he loves.  
He waits until his boy is asleep, and Mickey is so deeply immersed in sleep that he hardly even moves when Ian picks him up bridal style. It’s a sign of trust that makes Ian’s throat clench. The Milkovich is a wild, some would say feral, boy who just few weeks ago would sooner cut his teacher up than let his guard down around him. And now, even after Ian’s major fuck up, Mickey feels comfortable enough to sleep through being carried to the bed.  
The next day they wake up in a tangle of limbs, Ian doesn’t let his boy say anything. He fucks him for a long time, languidly thrusting into Mickey’s tight body until both are breathless and the friction is almost too much.  
They don’t talk during breakfast, Ian can see that the teenager is getting antsy, but he has everything planned. Mickey goes impossibly pale when, instead of going to school, they drive to a clinic. Still, he doesn’t say a thing when a nurse draws blood from him, or when Ian fingers him in the bathroom afterwards, or when they finally go to school and have to suffer through the rest of the day. After school Ian fucks Mickey on a kitchen table, and the boy whimpers the whole time, his hole red and swollen.  
When the teenager is still lying on the table, legs lasciviously spread, come covering his limp cock and abdomen, Ian sucks a bruise into his neck and whispers, “You’re mine. Only mine, fucking around stops right now. Once we know you’re clean I’m going to put so much come in you that you’ll choke on it, you hear me? Let me fucking love you.” The following kiss is hard and bruising, and Mickey’s hands shake where they grip Ian’s arms. He can wait for a love confession because Mickey’s actions say so much more than his words.  
Maybe Mickey is too young for this kind of commitment, maybe Ian is being selfish, but nothing is going to stop him from being with his boy for as long as they will manage. If he has anything to say about it – they are in for the very long haul.


End file.
